It should be known that I dislike the snow. It gets in your shoes, makes your feet cold and stiffens the fingers. To a swordsman, a stiff hand is death. To a mage, a stiff hand is a badly fumbled spell. If we’re lucky, it’s a quick death.

And I suddenly remember Zindel. Failed to grasp the subtle context in basic conjuration. We never found the rest of him.

That being said. I liked Tanaris. Dry, windy and desolate. I found myself at home with my thoughts while travelling through Tanaris. Not something you often get when you channel raw, unbridled energy.

When I stepped off the zepplin at Vengeance Landing I was certain of two things. One, that I rather disliked the Forsaken. I promise you they smell and it’s not just the plague vats they’re constantly brewing. Two, that I hate the snow and as a secondary consideration, the cold.

I hadn’t dressed warm enough for a journey to Northrend, let alone a lengthy stay.

It wasn’t long before I’d managed to convey my situation to the Innkeep and he..sh..it provided me with a woolen underlayer to help insulate me against the cold.

But it didn’t take long for me to find the zepplin again and book a flight west, to Honor Hold. I appreciate the company of a curageous and cunning people as the Orcs. At the very least, their food is better.